


Five Times Sam Wouldn't Eat (and One Time He Did)

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Brother Feels, Brotherly Bonding, Caretaking, Comfort Food, Food Issues, Gen, Little Brother Sam, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:59:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's taken the care and feeding of his little brother seriously from day one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sam Wouldn't Eat (and One Time He Did)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kazluvsbooks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazluvsbooks/gifts).



> Written for [kazluvsbooks](kazluvsbooks.livejournal.com) for her bid in the benefit auction for [marciaelena](marciaelena.livejournal.com) . Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy it! Thanks to the usual suspects, [theatregirl7299](theatregirl7299.livejournal.com), [roxymissrose](roxymissrose.livejournal.com), and [dolnmoon](dolnmoon.livejournal.com) for feedback and support!

1\. Bottle

"Come on, Sammy." John wiggled the bottle, trying to get his infant son to latch on. Instead, the baby cradled in his arms kept crying, mouth stretched wide, face red and wet from tears and exertion. "I know you're hungry, Sammy, your bottle's right here. Please, son, just take your bottle." John sighed, frustrated from several unsuccessful attempts to feed Sam. _Dean was never this difficult when he was hungry,_ , John couldn't help thinking, then kicked himself for comparing the two children. After all, Dean had had Mary; Mary had always known how to get the baby to eat, to burp, to go to sleep just right. Dean's infancy had passed in a warm, happy blur of cuddles and coos and smiles. In contrast, Sam's was an endless litany of pleas to eat, to sleep, to just be _quiet_ , his unhappy wails taxing John's patience and squeezing his brain until he couldn't even think.

He closed his eyes, praying for Mary to help him. _Please, please, I can't do this! How am I going to raise a baby? I can barely handle Dean!_ At least Dean knew how to go potty, how to handle a fork and a spoon and feed himself. Dean could be entertained by watching cars go by on the road, and liked cartoons when they stayed in the dingy motel rooms John could afford. Dean was already learning how to change Sammy's diapers, even if he made faces when it was a poopy one. Heck, John could barely stomach diapers full of baby shit himself; he couldn't blame his four and a half year old son for a little squeamishness.

The fact that it was his four and a half year old son even changing those diapers in the first place was something that John refused to think about.

John opened his eyes, looking at the red-faced little bundle in his arms. Sam's dark hair was sticking up all over his hot little head, and his little fists waved angrily in the air as he protested. "Oh, son, how am I going to do this?" John whispered, tears prickling in his eyes. He tried to get the bottle in Sam's mouth again, but the baby turned his head and cried afresh. John gritted his teeth, his frustration starting to slide into anger. _He's a baby! How can I be angry with him? He can't help it!_ screamed the logical part of his brain, but John still had to fight not to scream _Shut up! Shut up!_ at the squalling infant.

"Daddy?" asked a little voice at his knee. "Daddy...can I try? I can give him his bottle. I'll get him to eat."

John looked at his other son, standing next to John and regarding him with big, green eyes. Dean's face was serious _too serious for a kid, what I am doing to them?_ and he reached out hesitantly for the bottle with his little hand. "I can do it, Daddy. I watched Mommy all the time. I'll get Sammy to eat, I promise."

"Dean, you shouldn't...it's not your...oh, what the hell. I'm sure not getting anywhere. Go over and sit on that chair, and I'll put Sam in your lap." Dean ran over to the battered armchair and hopped up into it. John went over and laid the baby in Dean's lap, wedging a couple of pillows around him. "Be sure to wrap your arm around him, okay? Don't want him to fall." John cautioned his older son. "That's it."

"He's so cuddly and warm, Daddy." Dean carefully wrapped his arm around the baby just like John had instructed. Taking the bottle in his other hand, Dean said softly, "Okay, Sammy, it's dinner time. Yummy, yummy milk!" He cooed softly at his baby brother, who slowly stopped crying and stared at Dean with dark eyes. "Look, Daddy, he's listening to me!" Dean smiled proudly. He shook the bottle downward a little, letting a couple of drops seep out of the nipple. Still cooing, he rubbed the milky nipple gently over the baby's soft pink lips. "See, Sammy? Mmmmm..."

Sam kept staring at Dean as he opened his rosebud mouth and let the nipple in. Dean smiled as Sam latched on and began to suck, the noise loud in the quiet room. The baby fists opened and relaxed, their aimless waving decreasing until they grasped the bottle. Dean murmured little words of praise to the bundle in his lap, laughing as he heard the milk actually gurgling into Sam's tummy.

John stood watching, a mixture of emotions roiling inside him. Relief that the crying was over and Sam was eating; awed at Dean's speedy competence; even a little jealousy that Dean had accomplished what John hadn't been able to do. He hadn't managed to get his own child to suckle, and here the baby was, feeding happily in Dean's lap. _Great fathering, asshole,_ he thought to himself in disgust. _Nice work. Mary would be proud of you. Not._

"Don't forget to burp him when he's done," he said, hearing the curt tone in his voice and hating it, even as he was unable to stop it. He turned away, ignoring the big green eyes that looked at him filled with surprise and hurt, and picked up the brand-new leather journal he'd bought a few days ago. He'd heard that it was a good idea for hunters to keep a log of their prey and kills, add his experiences to the body of hunter knowledge and lore.

 _Guess I might as well start now,_ he thought. _No time like the present._

 

2\. Lucky Charms

Dean looked at the meager food selection, neatly organized on the shelf in the tiny kitchenette: a couple cans of spaghettios, a box of Lucky Charms less than half-full, half of a loaf of bread for toast in the morning. There was half a quart of milk in the doll-sized refrigerator, and some jam packets he'd snagged from the diner. He sighed. Even at nine, he knew this wasn't enough for two growing boys. When they were actually traveling with Dad, there were filling, if tasteless and greasy, diner meals, but when Dad went out for a hunt and left them behind, the pickings got pretty slim.

"Come on, Sammy, dinner." Dean tried to sound upbeat, but his words came out flat. Just like he felt about this crappy room in this crappy motel. _Stop it,_ he told himself. _Dad's a hero. He's out saving people. What's a light dinner compared to that? Suck it up, Dean._

Sam came and sat obediently, but immediately complained about the food. He refused the no-name spaghettios Dean had warmed up and plopped into a plastic bowl, clamoring instead for the Lucky Charms. Dean tried to fob him off, knowing that the cereal box was close to empty. It shouldn't have been a big deal, it wasn't; Dean knew that, but the resentment at having to take care of his little brother all the time coiled up tightly inside him. It was just cereal, but goddammit, it was supposed to be _his_ cereal.

"There's only enough for one bowl, and I haven't had any yet." Dean tried to keep from whining at his brother. Sam was pretty logical for a kid, so Dean hoped appealing to his fairness would be enough. _Just once, can something be mine? Even if it's only a lousy bowl of cereal?_

Instead, Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean with his big puppy-dog eyes. That's what Dean had taken to calling Sam's eyes when they got big and round, like a sad puppy. No one could resist the power of Sam's puppy-dog eyes, even--especially--Dean. He also knew that if Sammy didn't eat the cereal, he'd very likely not eat anything at all. Those eyes did not indicate how stubborn Sam could be, once he'd dug his heels in. Even Dad was learning that, not that it kept him from steamrolling both of his sons for "the greater good." For "the mission."

Dean knew Sam wasn't asking because he was spoiled--no one could ever call the Winchester boys spoiled. Dean and Sam both knew to take what they got and shut up about it. It was that Sam was growing up on Gas 'n Sip hot dogs, diner burgers, jerky, and junk food when they were on the road. Getting something like Lucky Charms was a treat for him--a sugary-sweet crunchy treat. Dean remembered things like home-baked pies with rich fruity insides, birthday cakes with chocolate frosting, chocolate chip cookies so fresh from the oven that the chocolate inside was still soft.

Sammy had never had any of those things. For him, it was sugar-crusted morsels in unnatural colors, doled out in dingy rooms as they waited for their father to return. Ultimately, it was worth it to Dean to sacrifice his own desire and give the treat to Sam, to have Sam eat the rest rather than eat nothing at all. Sam didn't have anything else to remember. Not like Dean.

Dean sighed heavily and dumped the spaghettios into the trash basket, reaching for the cereal and thumping the box on the table. He fetched a clean bowl and thumped it down too. He could understand, but it didn't mean he liked it any better.

Sam reached into the big cereal box and rummaged for a second in the sticky marshmallows.

"D'you want the prize?" he asked Dean softly, holding his hand out. On his palm was a little plastic ring, featuring a green turtle head wearing a brightly colored mask. Dean recognized it as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

Sammy loved TMNT. Donatello was his favorite.

Dean felt like kicking himself. "Thanks, buddy, you keep it." He sat down, pushing Sam's spoon toward him. Sam picked it up and happily began spooning cereal and milk into his mouth, playing with the ring in his other hand.

Dean watched him, all of his annoyance gone. Taking care of his little brother meant more than keeping him safe from monsters. Those monsters Sam didn't even know about yet. Taking care of Sammy meant trying to give him some of the things he'd never had...that he didn't even know he was missing yet.

_And one day he'll be older, and he'll start figuring it out. Then what, Dean-o?_

Dean didn't know that answer to that. He was only nine himself, and somehow he knew this wasn't supposed to be up to him to figure out. It was supposed to be for moms and dads to deal with.

He sighed as he watched Sam eat. They'd already lost Mom, and frankly, Dad wasn't around much. When he was, he was all wrapped up with guns and ammo and monsters and finding-the-thing-that-killed-Mom.

Not watching his sons and seeing what they needed in their lives. What they were missing.

Dean shook his head. It was hurting his head, trying to figure out this stuff. He was just going to be happy that Sam had eaten after all, and maybe after his little brother went to sleep, he'd sneak over the arcade machines he'd seen next door to the motel lobby when they checked in. That would take the knots out of his brain.

Dean smiled at Sam as the boy gave him a milky grin, swooping his TMNT ring through the air.

****

3\. Tomato & Rice

Dean woke up abruptly. He shook his head to clear the sleep-fog from his brain, wondering for a second what had disturbed him. His hand was already underneath his pillow gripping his gun, just in case. At fourteen, he was already always on guard, his number one priority keeping Sam safe. Especially when Dad was gone. Like he was most of the time.

Looking around, Dean saw Sam's bed was empty, but before he could be alarmed by that, he heard clattering in the bathroom, followed by muffled cursing. Apparently the aspirin had taken a nose-dive off the shelf.

He fell back on his pillow, slipping his hand back out to rub over his face. _Clumsy, giant-pawed idiot,_ he thought, rolling over to resume his beauty sleep. He heard the bathroom door open and Sam shuffle into the room. The springs of the other bed squeaked as Sam sat down heavily on it. For a skinny ten-year-old, Sam sure could make a lot of noise.

"You okay, little bro?" Dean mumbled. The pillows here were not bad at all, nothing smelled bad, and his bed was just the right blend of warm and cool....

"Dean...I think I'm sick," Sam said hoarsely. "Every time I swallow, it feels like a knife is in my throat."

"Well, maybe a knife _is_ in your throat." Dean answered, burrowing into his pillow. Now, where had he been...

"Fine," Sam huffed, followed by a spate of raspy coughing. Dean heard the sheets slither over his brother's body as Sam got back into bed himself.

All was quite for a few minutes, until Sam coughed again. Then he threw his blanket off onto the floor. That made Dean sit up. Sam was a veritable furnace, which Dean appreciated on cold winter nights under skimpy motel blankets, but if he felt warm to himself, then he was bound to be running a fever. Dean had not taken care of his little brother for the last ten years without learning everything about him. And if Sam felt hot, then he was sick.

102.8 degrees read the thermometer from their first-aid kit. Sam was sweating and shivering at the same time. Dean tucked him back into bed with just a sheet over him, a wet washcloth on his forehead, a dose of Tylenol to replace the pills he'd dropped. There were water bottles in the cooler, and Dean made Sam take some sips from one, despite the boy's protest that it hurt to swallow anything.

Then there was nothing to do but watch him sleep. Sam tossed and turned, finally sinking into a deeper sleep that let him lie still. Dean lay down then too, figuring he'd better catch some rest while Sammy was out. Fevers liked to return twice as strong in the middle of the night, and Dean knew he had to be ready for that.

At three a.m., Dean woke to hear Sam talking in his sleep. It wasn't that loud, but Sam only did it when he was very sick. He asked Dean where the hunt was, then apologized for leaving his crayons to melt in the Impala. Dean reassured Sam that the crayons were okay before getting a few sips of water into his parched brother. "Hurts...no more," mumbled Sam, pushing the bottle away. "I'm on fire, put it out, Dean, don't put me on the pyre..." and big fat tears rolled down his red cheeks, evaporating almost as soon as they were squeezed out, his skin was so hot.

Dean wrapped Sam up in his arms and rocked him, murmuring soft reassurances as his mind raced. This was the worst fever he'd ever nursed Sam through, and Dean was starting to worry that he was losing. At what point did he throw in the towel and get help? And where would that help even come from? Dad was at least one state away, and Pastor Jim was even further. Going to the motel manager or calling an ambulance would expose that they'd been left alone, and alert CPS. Tears of his own mixed with Sam's on their faces, as Dean pressed his cheek against his little brother's and tried not to panic.

***

Sunshine streamed in through the gauzy curtain; Dean woke up when the beam moved across the bed. He was startled--amazed that he'd actually fallen asleep, unwilling to credit how exhausted he really was. Sam lay next to him, swaddled in the messy sheets, only a bony foot sticking out and a mess of brown hair to be seen. "Sam!" Dean gasped, burrowing through the wrinkled sheets to find his brother.

Revealed in the nest he'd made, Sam's face was lax and his cheeks flushed, but not with the hectic red circles Dean had seen the night before. This was a rosy flush, and Sam's breathing was even. Dean ran a hand over Sam's forehead. It was warm, still too warm, but not to the point where Dean thought his hand would be burned. Sam's neck was damp with sweat, and his pajamas were soaked.

Dean knew that meant Sam's fever had broken in the night. His body had gone into a massive sweat as his body temperature re-regulated itself, and he was past the worst of it. Now it was just going to be recuperating and re-gaining his strength. And Dean knew how to do that.

"Thank god, Sammy," he whispered, nuzzling Sam's hair, a damp and stringy mop. "Thank god."

Sam stirred and opened one eyelid to gaze at Dean. "De...'m hungry. Can I have some soup?"

Dean gave a laugh that was a little closer to hysteria than he'd like to admit. "Sure thing, Sammy. How about some tomato and rice? You like that, huh?" It was Sam's favorite anytime he was sick, and Dean always made sure he had a can or two stashed in his duffle.

Sam nodded. "Yes, please."

Dean kissed Sam's forehead. "You got it, bro. I'm gonna heat some up for you right now, and then we'll see about a shower, okay? You're a sweaty, stinky mess!" Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean, and he laughed again, this time giddy with relief.

No need to let Sam know how worried Dean had been--it was going to be like any other day. Only Dean would know how sick Sam had been. That was part of being a big brother.

Dean whistled as he opened the can of tomato and rice and put a bowl of it into the microwave.

 

4\. Mac & Cheese

"No! _No!"_ " Sam's voice was filled with fear as he thrashed in the bed, flinging his bedcovers around.

"Sam!" Dean jumped out of his own bed, almost tripping on the blanket when he tried to get to Sam.

"What--" Sam's eyes opened, and Dean saw that look he'd become somewhat unhappily accustomed to; that blank stare while Sam tried to process where he was. While he realized that his girlfriend was not burning on the ceiling, still in her white nightgown, blood dripping from the gaping wound in her belly. The grief hit next, right on schedule, and Sam's blank look transitioned into overwhelming sorrow and pain.

"Another nightmare?" Dean asked, trying to sound casual, his fingernails biting into his palms as he resisted sweeping Sam into his arms. Sam wasn't ten anymore--he was twenty-two, and he couldn't be cuddled and comforted like that anymore. Especially while he was still getting used to having Dean back around in the first place, after four years apart.

Sam just nodded, but Dean saw his brother's clenched jaw, telegraphing how upset Sam really was. And how could he not be, after what he'd seen, the loss he'd been through? Sam had confided one drunken night after they'd left Palo Alto that he'd been about to propose to Jess--had the ring all picked out, knew what he was going to say and everything. He'd just been waiting until he got his LSAT score, so he'd know if he would be entering law school or not first.

Sam tossed his blanket aside and walked stiffly into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. Dean rubbed his hand over his face, pondering what to do about his little brother. Of course Sam was grieving, and probably would be for a long time. But he was still alive, and he wasn't taking care of himself at all. His sleep was constantly interrupted with nightmares, his concentration was shit half the time, and he was hardly eating at all. Sam was a tall guy now, well over six feet, and it was hard enough for him to carry a decent weight without his appetite disappearing. He was approaching skinny with gaunt just around the corner.

Dean sighed, He had to figure out some way to get Sam to eat, something that would be irresistible to his brother. Pie and cheeseburgers weren't going to cut it--they would certainly help Sam gain some weight back, but they weren't what he liked to eat, and it was too easy for him to turn them down. Right now, Sam was subsisting on coffee, toast, and the odd slice of pizza, none of which was enough for a six foot plus, active young man.

Dean continued to muse about Sam's lack of appetite and the weight loss from his grieving while he wandered the aisles of the local grocery store. Usually grocery stores were not Dean's forte, but this was a little mom-and-pop affair, not some shiny bright chain store, so he felt fairly comfortable. He perused the soup aisle, but Sam wasn't sick, and he needed more calories than soup offered. Cereal--Sam liked the grainy-crunchy stuff, but roughage sure didn't say comfort food to Dean. Neither did salad or vegetables, despite how his brother liked to pretend he was a giant rabbit.

"Can I help you?" asked a grandmotherly-looking woman in a tan apron, a colorful "Malone's Grocery" printed across the top. She smiled kindly at Dean, her brown eyes livelier than her gray curls might have led him to expect.

"Uh, I'm looking for something for my little brother, uh, Addy," Dean said, reading her name off the nametag pinned on her apron.

"Okay then, what does your little brother want?" she replied. "We're a small store, but we have a good selection."

Dean sighed. "I don't know. That's the problem. He's not feeling well, and I need to feed him up." He wasn't sure why he was telling her this, but she seemed so warm, like she was ready to set him down with a cup of tea, or just hug him. Not that he liked that sort of thing. Not Dean Winchester.

"Well, then, let's see. Not sure what he likes right now, hmmm." She started walking, and Dean automatically followed her. "Children like spaghetti. Sometimes spaghetti sauce is too acidic or spicy though. They like peanut butter and jelly. Maybe, meatloaf?" She looked askance at Dean, who quickly shook his head. "Ah, not much of a cook, are you?" She winked at him.

"Yeah, no. I can reheat like a mofo--I mean, like a pro. Open jars and boil water, that's about the extent of it." Dean ducked his head. A life on the road did not lend itself to culinary skills, and if a motel room offered anything in the way of a kitchen, it was usually just a hot plate or a microwave.

They were wandering down the pasta aisle, and Addy stopped in front of some bright blue boxes. "Oh, my grandson loves this. Macaroni & cheese. He'd eat it every day if he could."

Dean stopped and stared at the boxes of macaroni and cheese. He remembered making that so many times when they were kids. Sam's favorite way was with cut-up hot dogs and ketchup in it, the ketchup turning the bright orange cheese sauce a muddy tan. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, this is it. Thank you." He smiled at Addy, who beamed back.

"There now! Glad to help you, dear. Anything else?"

"Yeah, um, do you have hot dogs? And ketchup?"

***

That evening, Dean set a plate down in front of Sam, who'd just returned from the library. "Here, I thought we could eat in for once," Dean said casually. He got his own dish, turning off the hot plate and joining Sam at the little table.

Sam stared at the plate for a few seconds. Dean played nervously with his fork, twiddling it around, finally spearing some macaroni and a piece of cut-up hot dog on it and swirling in it the muddy tan sauce. He put it in his mouth, but couldn't even taste it, he was watching Sam so anxiously while pretending not to watch at all.

Finally Sam picked up his fork and scooped some macaroni up with it. He ate a couple more forkfuls in silence, stretching Dean's nerves to the breaking point.

"This is really good. Just like I remember." Sam looked at Dean and gave a little smile. "Thanks."

"No problem," said Dean as if he did this every day, heaving a sigh of relief inside. He ate slowly, watching Sam clean his plate and get up for seconds, and said a silent thank you to Addy and Kraft.

 

5\. Chicken Caesar Salad

Dean watched Sam's eyes dart nervously around the room. There was more than a hint of panic in them, and Dean sighed. He knew without asking that Sam was either seeing Lucifer, or thinking he saw Lucifer, or worried about seeing Lucifer. And that meant that, once again, his food would go untouched.

Sam was still fairly bulky and well-muscled from his soulless alter ego's constant working out, but since his psyche had been reintegrated, his face had become drawn and his eyes shadowed. He'd managed to admit to Dean that he often couldn't tell what was real and what was Lucifer toying with him, or at least hallucinations of Lucifer toying with him. This included eating; in the Cage, Lucifer apparently would provide Sam with tempting, savory dishes, only for Sam to find that he was eating bugs, or raw meat, or some type of entrails. He never knew which was real--the delicious or the disgusting. The result was that Sam now doubted what his eyes saw on the plate or his tastebuds relayed to his brain and, more often than not, he simply refused to eat.

It was the showdown in the empty warehouse, the one where Sam almost shot him, that had given Dean a clue. He'd managed to convince Sam to trust him, that Dean was his foundation, his 'stone number one.' Dean was real, and Sam could finally believe that, if nothing else.

Once he'd gotten the idea, Dean mulled it over for a day or two before acting on it. After driving through Indiana, he stopped in a small town in Kentucky and parked at a decent-looking motel, a little above the usual hovel they stayed in. The real draw was the diner next to it--Dean had been through here before, and he remembered this diner to be the real deal. It was clean, with tasty, hearty food, and the pie was fantastic. It was as good a place as any to try and break Sam's eating aversion.

"C'mon, Sam, just sit. I'm hungry, and you probably are too, you're just too thick-headed to notice." Dean gently pushed Sam into a booth. Sam huffed but said nothing.

The waitress came over, a middle-aged woman in a pink gingham uniform and white apron. She had streaky blonde highlights, lavender eyeshadow, and her lips were a orangy color not known in nature, but her outfit was clean and her smile warm and welcoming. "Hi, boys. Welcome to Sally's." She gave them the standard laminated menu sheet and said, "Specials today are fish and chips, pulled pork sandwich, or Caesar salad with grilled chicken. Be right back with some water and take your order." With another smile, she headed back to the counter.

Dean groaned inside. Man, he loved him some pulled pork. Tender shreds with rich, tangy sauce, piled high on a toasted roll, some creamy coleslaw on the side...his mouth watered. _No,_ he told his stomach firmly. _Today is about Sam._ For his part, Sam was looking listlessly over the menu, finally shoving it away and gazing out the window.

Dean didn't even try to engage Sam in ordering. When Maddie (so her nametag read) returned, pad and pencil at the ready, Dean ordered two sweet teas and a double Caesar salad, extra croutons. Maddie blinked and said, "Do you just want two salads, honey?"

Dean shook his head. "No, just one big one, if you don't mind." He gave her an eye-twinkling smile.

She shook her head but said, "Sure thing! I'll get that right up for you."

Sam glanced at Dean with a flicker of curiosity. "I thought for sure you were going for the pulled pork. Need some roughage?"

Dean sniffed. "My digestive tract is working just fine, thank you. Just...something different." Sam snorted and returned to studying the scenery, staring quietly outside the window.

Maddie returned bearing a platter piled with romaine, the greens coated with a rich glistening of oil, thickly speckled with parmesan and pepper. Atop the lettuce was a pile of grilled chicken strips, the meat marked with blackened sears. While Dean was lukewarm about salad in general, he did have to admit this looked appealing, and the meat looked tasty and tender.

Depositing plates, silverware, the glasses of tea, and a bowl of croutons, Maddie withdrew and left them to eat. Dean ignored the plates, simply digging his fork right into the platter and shoving some salad and chicken into his mouth. The savory grilled chicken, the tang of the oil and spices and the crispness of the lettuce surprised him with how delicious they were. "Mmmm!" he mumbled in surprise. "This is really good!"

Sam rolled his eyes with his usual attitude toward Dean's lack of couth. He picked up a fork and reached for a plate.

Dean stopped Sam's hand. "No. Like this, just from here."

Sam looked at him questioningly. "Dean, what--"

Dean put his fork down and swallowed. "Look, Sam, I get that you don't trust yourself, your senses. That you can't eat without worrying what it is you're eating. But you need fuel, man. So here's what we're gonna do for a while. Just until you know you're really out and okay." He picked up his fork again. "You know I'm real now, right?" Sam nodded. "So you can trust me. Trust what I do." He slowly put his fork into the salad again, spearing a piece of chicken and putting it into his mouth, looking at Sam the whole time. He nodded at Sam, gesturing with his fork.

Sam's eyes widened as he looked at Dean and then the salad. Hesitantly, he picked up his fork and poked at the romaine. Looking anxiously at Dean, he picked up a small piece of lettuce and brought it to his mouth. Dean nodded, and Sam bit it.

A smile flashed across Sam's face. "Mmm. Good." He ate the lettuce and forked a bit of chicken. Morsel by morsel, his eyes almost constantly on Dean, Sam began to eat the salad.

Together, they ate quietly. Dean sighed with relief inside. It had worked. Sam was able to trust Dean's actions enough to eat from where Dean ate, to know whatever Dean ingested was safe for Sam.

And if that meant Dean would have to eat a lot of salads and vegetables for a while, no problem. As long as Sammy ate and regained his strength. Even Lucifer couldn't stand up to the love of a big brother.

 

***

1\. Dean's Special Burgers

Sam and Dean left the upper hallway where, moments ago, they'd seen Charlie and Dorothy walking down the Yellow Brick Road into Oz. Dean felt warm inside from hearing Sam acknowledge that the bunker was now home. _Their_ home.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam bumped his shoulder into Dean's.

"Yeah?"

"You hungry?"

Dean snorted. When was he not ready to eat? "Sure, dude, I could eat."

"You think you could make those burgers again? You know, those really awesome ones you made that other time, with the Worcestershire, and the red onion, and whatever the hell else you put in there?"

Dean stopped and looked at Sam, startled by his request. Sam never asked for anything, and he sure as hell didn't ask for _burgers_.

"Yeah? You sure? I could make you a western omelet or something. Put in extra peppers and mushrooms and all."

Sam shook his head. "Naw. I like those too, but that burger--that was freakin' fantastic." Dean turned his head and found those puppy-dog eyes staring at him. Didn't seem to matter how old Sam got, those damn eyes still worked. "Please? If it's not too much work, I mean."

"Oh, sheesh...fine! Stop with the eyes already! Yes, I'll make your burger." Dean huffed in mock annoyance as he turned into the kitchen. "Jesus, those things should be registered as lethal weapons!" He heard Sam chuckle behind him.

As Dean began to assemble the ingredients for his super-Dean-burgers, a smile played over his mouth.

Sam.

Asking for a burger.

In their home.

Would wonders never cease.


End file.
